


watching

by Areiton



Series: Steter Week 2018 [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enforcer Peter Hale, Established Relationship, Killing, M/M, Murder Husbands, Sex, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 17:40:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Peter likes to watch.





	watching

**Author's Note:**

> Day Three! YAY! Murder Husbands, so like, be aware that this is violent and slightly disturbing? Enjoy!!

Peter likes to watch. 

It's not that he doesn't like getting his hands dirty--he does. 

There is a reason Stilinski married his only son to Talia Hale's best, most vicious enforcer. And it had nothing to do with how clean his hands were. 

Still. He likes to watch. 

They're power players in two major crime families who collectively control the western seaboard and most of the southwest. People  _ know _ them. 

They know Peter Hale killed for the first time when he was fifteen, ripped a man's throat out for insulting his sister, and whistled as he walked away. 

They know that in the two decades since, he has only grown colder and more brutal, that when his sister and her three youngest children were killed by an Argent hit squad he lost his mind, sank into a savagery so deep and complete it was only the near death of his niece and nephew that drug him back and stilled his search for vengeance. 

They know that Stiles is the only son of John Stilinski, that he was born to the life, third generation to it, and that John had spent most of Stiles life protecting him. Stiles was the doted on, spoiled son. He was the son no one saw, and the one they dismissed when they did see him. 

And then he married Peter Hale, the Bloody Wolf, and he went from the spoiled son to the pretty husband, and still-- _ still _ \--they dismissed him. 

It’s why Peter likes to watch. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles doesn’t prowl through the room, like he does. 

He doesn’t glide with the sleek confidence of Lydia or the strut of Derek. Stiles stumbles through life, his lips twisted into a friendly smile as he stumbles into people and chairs, laughter spilling from his lips as Scott rights him. 

Peter’s lip curls a little, displeased as ever by Stiles’ bodyguard’s proximity. 

Stiles laughs at something Scott says, and he reminds himself that the bodyguard is nothing more than that, a brother--Stiles’ best friend and never anything more. 

Across the club, Stiles catches his eyes, and Peter smiles, slow and pleased. And he watches. 

 

~*~

 

The man’s hands are low on Stiles’ hips and he checks the urge to punch his teeth down his throat, twists his hips a little, and it makes the man’s hands clench a little. He can feel Peter’s gaze on him--Peter’s gaze never leaves him on nights like this. 

He twists away from the man’s lips, turns with a coy smile. “Wanna take this somewhere private?” he murmurs and the guy’s eyes go hot and hungry, his nod just a smidge too desperate. 

Stiles smiles, and turns, leading the guy toward the back.

 

~*~

 

The rest of their world expects Peter’s cruel brutality. 

They know he’s vicious and possessive and often walks the wrong line of sane. 

They know he doesn’t hesitate to kill when necessary and sometimes, when it’s not. 

But no one--no one  _ ever _ expects Stiles. 

 

~*~

 

When he slips into the red room, Stiles is leaning over, his ass delectable in the too tight pants he always favors when they’re hunting. He palms his husband’s perky ass, and Stiles wiggles, happily, finishes snapping the cuffs on their mark and straightens with a grin. “Hey, baby.” 

Behind him, the man handcuffed to a chair makes a muffled noise behind his gag, his eyes bulging in dismay. 

_ Idiot _ . 

Peter leans into Stiles, kissing him gently. “You ready, sweetheart?” 

Stiles nods, bouncing a little. Peter adores his boy like this, when the hunt is over and all that’s left is the kill. When he’s shaken the coy, too innocent, clumsy seduction. When he’s vibrating out of his skin, a grin strung across his lips, hands not quite able to stop touching Peter even as his eyes go cold and remote and lovely. 

Sweet deadly boy. 

Peter indulges in one more kiss, licking into his mouth and chasing the traces of vodka there, the sweet cherry gloss Stiles likes to wear. 

Then he pulls back and smirks at his boy’s whimper. “It’s your show, little one.”

 

~*~

 

“Do you know why you’re here?” Stiles asks, circling the chair. Peter leans against the wall, hands tucked into his suit pockets, a quiet threat that the man keeps watching. He licks his lips and flicks a t glance at Peter and Stiles huffs, slams the bat in his hand down on his right knee. 

“Pay attention,” Stiles snaps, over the screams. “And quit staring at my fucking husband.” 

It devolves from there. 

By the end, Stiles is sticky with blood, hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, and arms trembling. His bat is dripping blood and the bastard in the chair--Peter feels his gut churn, staring at what’s left of a human who so recently put his hands on what is Peter’s. 

It settles something primal and furious, seeing the shattered bone and bloody meat, the ruined face and blood dripping from broken fingers that can never touch Stiles or anything else again. 

He’s hard, has been since the first time Stiles hit the dead man with his bat, and wants to strip Stiles out of those fucking painted on jeans and remind him, remind them both, just who Stiles belongs to. 

The bat clatters to the ground and Stiles groans, rolling his head back, and Peter finally shifts, comes up behind him and rubs at the tight muscles of his neck. Stiles whimpers and leans back. 

“Can we go home?” he asks, voice slurry and tired and Peter presses a kiss to his temple. 

“Let me get the clean up crew in here and talk to Derek.” 

Stiles whimpers and twists, burrowing into Peter. 

He’s always needy, clingy, after he kills. And Peter is always unable to deny his boy what he wants. 

“Spoiled brat,” he murmurs, fondly and Stiles hums agreeably as Peter pushes open the door. Boyd is in the hall with Scott and the big man lifts an eyebrow. “Clean up?” 

“Please. And the car, Scott.” 

Scott smiles brightly and trots away, and Peter ducks back into the red room. 

Stiles is swaying where he stands, a lazy content smile on his face, and despite the blood he’s splattered with, he looks younger than his years, like this. 

So much of who Stiles is, of what Stiles is capable of, is hidden under the surface. So much is carefully hidden. 

It used to baffle Peter, that a boy as bright and brilliant and cruel as Stiles could so easily be relegated to the spoiled, sheltered son. But then he watched, because Stiles with his pale skin and sarcastic smile and quick wit  _ fascinated  _ him, and he realized it was careful. 

It was planned. 

Stiles appeared exactly as he wanted to be, and it made him deadly. 

The first time Peter watched Stiles kill, he knew that he’d move heaven and hell and give up his entire syndicate, to marry the boy. 

 

~*~

 

He pulls Stiles into their penthouse, as he hangs up on Derek, passing along the news--Donovan has been dealt with and gave them his boss. 

By morning, his nephew will have dealt with Theo and all will be well in their world again. But that’s a distant concern, because Stiles is clinging, pliant and warm and mouthing at his shoulder, next to him, and Peter hums. “Bed, darling.” 

Stiles nods, agreeably, and Peter steers him into their room. He strips Stiles easily, and throws the bloody clothes into a bin for burning later, before pushing Stiles into a shower. His husband bitches and complains and Peter ignores him, washes him with quick and familiar efficiency, before pulling him, still dripping, to bed. 

Stiles is quiet as Peter fingers him open, content to kiss him lazily, biting at Peter’s throat and nipples while Peter murmurs, “You looked so good, sweetheart. You always looks so beautiful, when you’re working. I love watching you.” 

Stiles shudders, presses blindly back into the fingers thrusting into him, “Want you to see me,” he murmurs, and Peter’s heart lurches. 

Because even now, after years of being together, that trust never fails to knock the breath right out of him. 

Stiles, who has spent his entire life hiding what he is and what he is capable of,  _ wants _ Peter to see him. 

To see every dark corner of him. 

It’s why Peter watches. It’s why he  _ loves _ watching. 

He makes a noise, desperate and almost begging and Stiles wiggles around, straddles him and sinks onto Peter’s cock with a slow groan. 

Peter laces their fingers together, and watches as Stiles rocks above him, grinding down, his face slack and flushed with pleasure as he rides Peter, a keen in his throat. 

There is blood still flecked on his temple, and Peter kisses his fingers, where it’s still caked in his cuticles, and he watches, everything that Stiles will not let anyone else see. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)!


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